


Every Damn' Time

by Morgan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-28
Updated: 2010-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-09 05:19:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgan/pseuds/Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The slightest thing sets you off. It's all need and anger and roiling emotions. How can he get to me like this every damned time?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Damn' Time

The way it usually starts is he'll pick a fight. He'll find some little thing and he'll just start in on me until I want to clock him. He knows exactly which buttons to push. Hell, he installed most of them. Sometimes it's just the tone of his voice or the way he cocks his head. Makes my blood boil.

He gets this look in his eyes. Angry, closed off, goading, elemental. Like he's daring me. If I had to explain any more than that I'd say he just find that last little lever and pulls it with an almost imperceptible smirk.

What it does exactly I don't know but it makes me step into his space every time. It makes me push right up to him every time. It makes me swear at him. It makes me shove him real hard, too hard for it to be playful.

When we get that far the look in his eyes changes from elemental to knowing. There's a shade of triumph in there too in the greens and the blues. He's just waiting for it. And just because he knows how to do it he gives me that deep, smug, perceptive look and that's when I realize I'm lost.

I feel it in my blood, deep in my veins. I feel it in the parts of myself I deny. He taunts the side of me I try so hard to hide. And then my dick grows hard and my hands are on him.

I slam him up against the wall. On over drive, still wanting to, I don't know, hurt him. Even the score. Get my balance back. It's so unsettling he can get to me like this so fast. Even with everything else on hold, all my emotions in check, this I can't control.

I have fistfuls of his shirt in my hands and he's pushing against me. Gleam in his eyes like he's the one driving. At that point I'm usually calling him names, growling at him, telling him… telling him "shut up" only to get that smug grin, that cocky reply "make me". Slamming him into the wall again. He's still just watching. Waiting. When he rolls his hips against mine I know.

He doesn't use his hands. He just challenges. And waits. Third time - I pull him forward a little and slam again. That's fucking it! I'm going to walk away. Not going to be dragged into this again. I don't even know how he does it without seeming to change a single muscle but suddenly I'm in too deep. Again.

I growl frustration in his face, bristle at him, but my body is already keyed up and moving on to more interesting things.

I can't let go of my anger just yet. Can't switch gears that fast. Anger feeds the other thing too, he damned well knows it. Bastard. That's why he isn't fighting back. Yet. That's why he just fucking stands there, because he knows it will all come crashing down in a minute and it's like he enjoys it. The heat, the breathlessness, the tension, all of it. It's like he wants that moment of charging currents while I try to think of a way to not bruise him, not make demands, not do this. Again.

Just when I start to feel I have my breathing back under control and I'm starting to climb out of the hole I've dug myself into… his eyes go liquid. Dark. And his words come at me from some subterranean part of his mind. He's goading me on. My defenses are down. Or way, way up. I don't know anymore.

I've had fights with others. Other times, other places, other eyes, hands, bodies. I've said hurtful things to others. Stakes were higher at some points because fighting could have ended everything and I knew it. Fights about the whole college thing, splitting up the family… those fights were bad to watch, to be in.

This is nothing like that. I know no matter what I say, what I do, no matter how much I try – how hard I push, he wont leave. Not now. Not ever. That's good in a way, but it's also very, very bad. It becomes a…thing. The risk is that we both up the stakes a little every time. Sooner or later someone will get hurt for real. And even that will probably be okay. Which is so very wrong. And even worse – turns me on.

-You done slamming me against the wall? He asks, still calm.

I grab his shirt harder and force him back, pressing one leg between his. Pinning him hard. Bastard's smiling again. His hands quiet by his sides, his eyes half closed. I let go enough that I can put one hand under his chin and force his head back and aside to lick at his neck. Swearing into his skin. His breathing gets a little strained and I am all over him, crushing the air out of his lungs, rocking into him so hard it's got to hurt. I'm hurting. He should be too.

The second I take my hand off neck to claw at his chest his eyes are back on my face. Dark. Amused. I know I've said "never again". I know I've said "we've got to stop". I've said all those things. I don't mean them.

Finally his hands come up slowly raking down my back ending on my ass, drawing me in. It's not gentle, or easy, or casual or any of those things you might want it to be. It's a challenge. A muffled "come on" to my skin already burning for This Now. Desperate and angry. I'll rip at his clothes, and he'll just laugh because the motion that carries him is me pulling him closer and pushing him away at the same time.

I'll growl and curse and he'll laugh at that too, because I am practically begging already. Saying his name. By the time I'm inside him I have one hand on him and a fistful of his shirt and he lets me do this because he knows it will shut me up.

It worries me. Well, not at that moment. Not when it feels like the world is rent asunder around me and all light and dark is focused on the two of us and this thing between us, all glow and heat and sweat and blood and "sweet lord, did he just…" and the things he will say or do for me just to get me there. I never have to ask for anything. He always just knows.

Knows I need the fight. Knows I need the desperate moments. Knows better than I do that in that mess of emotions, in the minutes of our bodies crashing together, I am completely and totally present in the Now.

After the moment shatters and after I've blanked out and drawn back he turns to me, finds me broken and sad. He drags me into his arms and settles us together on the floor. He has his back to the wall and I am between his legs, being held like I was just out of some fevered nightmare. I'm five and fifteen and a hundred and five all at once. He is my mother, father, priest, confessor, protector, brother, lover. He is just holding me as I lay there curled in on myself.

-You let me do this to you, I say quietly.

It is not a question. He doesn't answer because it is not a question. I want to say more, but we've been through this all before. It's wrong and bad and sick and it makes sense in that awful way that gives you a sense of impending doom. It makes sense because all we've ever had was this. The limited number of things that gets more frightening to look too closely at all the time. We're down to the bare essentials.

The hunt. Each other.

Still it shouldn't be like this. It shouldn't be this easy. It shouldn't be this hard. It makes me sick and it makes me elated at the same time. Exhausting. Nightmares can't get through this. It blanks out everything. We'll both sleep tonight.

-You let me do this to you, I say again and there is a question there.

A big "why" or maybe "how can you" or even "how do you always know … what I need".

-Yeah, he says. His arms tighten, but his voice is heavy, he drawls the word. Sated. "Let's get some sleep, Sammy. We've got a lot of work to do."

END


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